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The sun-bleached black SUV trundles down the winding, narrow road, each turn seemingly sharper than the last. You rest your cheek against the cool window, a welcome contrast to the warmth in the cabin that’s starting to boarder on oppressive. The car dips suddenly, as it’s been wont to do for the past half hour on this unpaved road, and your head cracks smartly against the window, eliciting a sharp curse from you.
“Alright back there?” Price calls from the driver’s seat, watching you massage the lump forming on your forehead through the rear-view mirror. The dense foliage flashing by your window, Price’s driving that would certainly be labeled as ‘reckless’ in a court of law, and now the throbbing pulse radiating from your temples are all consolidating into one hell of a headache – and you’re not even there yet.
“Fantastic, sir.” You grumble, struggling to convince yourself that you didn’t just sound like a petulant child.
“She’s fine, Captain.” Soap chimes in helpfully, turning to smirk at you from the passenger seat. “Nothin’ important knockin’ round in that head, anyways.”
You use your middle finger to rub the corner of your eye and he snorts. “Y’see? Just fine.”
Ghost exhales audibly, prompting you to swivel your head towards him just in time to catch the amused glint in his eye before he averts his gaze. You flick his shoulder with a whispered accusation of “traitor,” but your words carry no heat. How could they, when the press of his knee against yours is so reassuring? And judging by the way his demeanor seems to soften when some part of him is touching some part of you, he must find these subtle points of contact equally as grounding. Even if it’s just a passing brush of shoulders or the movement of his boot edging towards yours under the briefing room table – he seems to breathe a little deeper in these quietly intimate moments.
Price clears his throat. “We’re nearly there – listen up.” Three gazes dutifully flick to the captain. “Th’ mountains are gonna interfere with our usual tech, so we’re switching to short-range UHF.” The compact radio is fastened to the neckline of your vest, a thin wire connecting it to the earpiece. You squint at the tiny LED screen, verifying the channel and holding down the push-to-talk button, waiting for the muted buzz of static before releasing it. All in working order.
“Ghost and I are on overwatch; we’ll make sure no one sneaks up on you. Switch and Soap will sweep the house and search for any actionable intel that might’ve been left behind. French Spec-Ops told us the place is mostly bugged out, but don’t let your guards down.” Saying so must be a formality, or perhaps just for Price’s peace of mind. You’ve never seen a single member of the team let their guard down on an op; you’re not even sure Ghost is capable.
The car eases slowly onto an overlookable side road nestled between the dense trees. The landscape is untouched, save for the tire tracks dug into the rocky terrain.
“After that, Soap will check the shed a few hundred yards out back, and Switch - you’ll go down to the basement and set the charges. They want this place blown off the map so don’t be shy with the Semtex.” Price meets your eyes in the mirror as you sit up a little straighter, trying not to bounce your leg. It’s been far too long since someone besides Soap got to blow shit up, an even longer time since that someone was you.
It’s a shame Gaz isn’t here to bear witness to the occasion, but he’s probably somewhere warm and dry, enjoying his leave while the rest of you are here, about to freeze your asses off somewhere north of Champoléon, France.
Hidden between the mountains of the Massif des Écrins range is a suspected hideout for a small terrorist splinter-cell – an unassuming little house whose schematics (courtesy of the Commandement des Opérations Spéciales) you and the others had poured over thoroughly. Evidently, the neighboring locals weren’t too pleased to see truckloads of armed gunmen mar the pristine pathways of their sleepy towns. Enter, the one-four-one.
The SUV slows to a stop just outside the clearing. You all pile out, Soap sauntering over to poke you in the shoulder.
“Sure ye can handle it, lass?”
“I can handle sticking some Semtex on a fuckin’ boiler, Soap.”
“Ach, simmer down. A’hm not the one who got shown up at the last demolitions demo-“
“You muppets give it a rest!” Price chides. “Ghost and I are moving out – wait until we give you the go-ahead.”
The two men trudge away in opposite directions, leaving you and Soap to lean against trees and bore holes into the cabin with your eyes. He is uncharacteristically silent.
“You solid?” You ask, disconcerted by his unusual reticence.
“’Course a’hm solid, just-“ He scratches the scruff on his face. “Got a weird feelin’ is all.”
Just the thing you want to hear before handling live explosives. You look away from his carefully neutral expression, settling your gaze back onto the cabin with new perspective.
Static crackles in your ear. “We’re in position.” Price says. “Ghost, signal your location.”
“Flashing.” Two identical points of white light blink from overlooks on either side of the clearing.
“We see ‘em.” You release your radio and adjust the pouch of Semtex affixed to your belt.
“You’re good to go, then.” Price informs you, and the comms go quiet.
You share a nod with Soap, trailing him across the clearing. Stacking up behind him at the front door, he glances at you one final time before pushing it open gingerly. You both slink inside with practiced efficiency, dropping two targets in the entryway.
The first floor is cleared in a matter of minutes. Price’s intel was accurate – there’s only been three marks so far, and they weren’t much of a challenge at all. They hadn’t even seen you coming.
After another nod from Soap, he begins picking his way to the staircase you bypassed earlier. “Movin’ up.”
“Goin’ down.” The building layout pushes to the forefront of your mind, and you find the door to the basement right where it should be. Descending the rickety staircase as cautiously as you can, laden with gear as you are, you find only one person in the basement, his back to you. You draw your suppressed M16 into position but lower it when the man moves to stand directly in front of the boiler.
An errant bullet and a highly pressurized vat of steam and scalding water make for a disastrous combo – you’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. You creep up behind him, footfalls lost in the groaning of the boiler and presumably ancient piping. One clean strike with the stock of your rifle, and he’s down for the count.
You heave his body to the side and set about adhering a generous amount of Semtex to the warm metal, fiddling with the wires of the detonator until 01:30 flickers onto the screen.
“Charges set; on your go, Soap.”
“Ach, it’s a bust up here. Place is cleaned out.” You can hear the shuffling of papers from his end before Price chimes in.
“As we thought. Head to the shed out back, Sergeant.”
“Rog. Cleared for takeoff, Switch.”
You depress the button on the side of the little screen and wait for the countdown. 01:29. 01:28. 01:27.
“Ninety seconds ‘til showtime.” You mumble into your radio, receiving three affirmatives after a short beat. The back door creaks open from above your head, and receding footsteps signal Soap’s departure.
You proceed back towards the staircase, barely having planted your boot on the first step when rustling from behind freezes you in your tracks. You don’t even have enough time to spin around before you’re tackled brutally from behind, a hand on the back of your head driving your face into the stairs. You hear the cartilage in your nose splinter before a deluge of blood flows over your lips.
You throw your elbow behind you, feeling it connect with your assailant’s face. His grip slackens, and you use the opening to twist around and shove him backwards, grim satisfaction suffusing your hindbrain when he topples down the steps, head connecting with the cement.
Why didn’t you check the body, why, why, why?
Your eyes flick to the timer. 01:03. 01:02. Shit, you need to wrap this up.
The mark is already back on his feet by the time you level your rifle with his chest, sidestepping milliseconds before you squeeze the trigger, your bullets tunneling ineffectually into the wall. The close quarters make it nigh on impossible to get a clean shot. You release your gun to be held by its sling, instead driving the flat of your foot into your attacker’s knee, feeling the sickening crack reverberate up your own leg. He spits something at you in French, but, to his credit, doesn’t crumple like you expect.
But you’re quicker on your feet, shoulder-rushing him into the wall like a linebacker. His skull bounces off the drywall and you see one of his pupils blow wide. Before he has a chance to recover, your forearm is crushing into his windpipe with all your bodyweight behind it, and you dodge the hands that swipe at your face.
“Thirty seconds.” Price’s voice trails off, an unspoken question in his expectant tone.
“Switch, sitrep.” Ghost demands. You’re don’t have time to analyze how antsy he sounds.
The eyes of the man you’ve currently got pinioned are desperate, animalistic, but you don’t relent. You reach for the switchblade in your pocket as his struggles renew.
“We’re comin’ down.” You can barely hear Price over the haunting noises emanating from deep in your attacker’s throat. “Anyone got eyes on ‘er?”
“Negative, headin’ back.” Soap’s voice is as strained as the other two. “Switch, ye’ve got fifteen seconds - what’s the holdup?”
Even without the gut punch your target just landed on you, your hands are far too occupied to respond. Finally, your fist closes around your saving grace, and you wrench it out of your pocket and flick open the blade in one smooth motion.
“Switch, where the fuck are you?” Your lieutenant sounds angry, breathless.
You plunge the knife into the man’s fluttering jugular, taking no pleasure in the blood that pours over your hand and the way his eyes grow impossibly wider.
“Ghost, get your arse back here!” Price barks into your ear.
“She’s still fuckin’ in there, Price!” His words are punctuated by heaving breaths and thudding footfalls.
You glance over your shoulder as the last vestiges of consciousness drain away from the now lifeless body in front of you. 00:07. 00:06.
Shit. If you’re blown up by your own charges, Soap would buy a Ouija board just to make fun of you.
You rip the knife out of the target’s neck and practically hurl yourself up the staircase.
“Five seconds!” You don’t even know who that came from.
The front door is wide open, almost taunting you.
You nearly crush your radio with the force of your grip on the control. “Ghost, fall back! I’m almost –“
A deafening boom is accompanied by searing heat crawling up your back and an indomitable force launching you forward. You’re unconscious before you hit the ground.
“No!” Ghost watches Soap come careening to a stop as the house is engulfed in flames. “Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus!” He turns away from the blaze, falling into a crouch and grasping the sides of his head.
Price just stares, wide-eyed, as his hand drifts up to his hat, fingers curling it into his fist and dragging it slowly off his head. His expression cracks, then, and he spikes the thing violently into the ground with an aggrieved “Fuck!”
And Ghost – Ghost doesn’t accept this. And he can’t figure out for the life of him why the others seem to. No, he doesn’t accept this for one second. There’s simply no way such a brightly shining star could be snuffed out in a fraction of a second.
Soap walks listlessly to his side just as Ghost sets off towards the flaming building.
In his periphery, Soap reaches out abortively. “Ghost, there’s no way she’s-“
“Then when I find her, Sergeant, I’ll be sure to tell her you were the first to give up.” And with that, Ghost continues his trek around the house.
“With me, Soap.” Price mumbles, and the other two men circle in the opposite direction.
With each step, each crunch of gravel under his boots, Ghost’s feels the hope being siphoned out of him.
This can’t be happening to him – not again.
But as he navigates to the back, he sees something that causes it to flood back in with almost dizzying intensity. Your body, face-down and battered, but there. You made it out.
He sprints to you, dropping to his knees roughly and digging his fingertips into your pulse point, mindful of the burns snaking up your shoulder and down your arm. When he feels the weak, stuttering pulse against his skin, he wants to sag with relief. But he has a job to do now; you need him.
Price and Soap rush over as Ghost gently turns you, cataloguing the scores of lacerations on your face, your clearly shattered nose, and the blood drenching your hands.
“Is she-“ Soap begins, but Ghost cuts him off.
“She’s alive.” He gingerly slides his arms under you, bringing you to his chest, jostling you as little as possible – it would be a miracle if the damage wasn’t internal as well.
“I’ll bring the car.” Price says, quick on the uptake as usual, and he races to the treeline.
The SUV skids to a halt a few yards away, and Soap clambers in while Ghost maneuvers you to lay across the bench seat, your head pillowed in his lap. Soap is already extending a med-kit to him, and Ghost gets to work tending to your face as well as he’s able in the cramped space.
Price is flying down the road one-handed, using the other to speak tersely into the satellite radio they had stashed in the car, seemingly arranging a med-evac at the nearest airport.
Ghost attempts to keep you still against the movement of the car, but one particularly deep divot in the road has your expression pinching in discomfort. His attention is homed in on your face in an instant, and his relief to see your eyes open blearily is tempered by the disparity in the sizes of your pupils.
You groan weakly, and Ghost prevents your attempt to sit up with an arm braced across your chest.
“Woah, easy,” He murmurs, despite knowing you’re likely not processing a single thing that’s happening at the moment.
You bring your hands to his forearm, curling your fingers into the sleeve of his compression shirt.
“Simon?” You question feebly, struggling valiantly to focus your vision.
Ghost feels his eyes widen slightly, but, almost on instinct, he weaves his unoccupied hand into your hair, brushing it carefully away from your face. He doubles over slowly, lowering his masked forehead down to rest gently on yours, closing his eyes. “Yeah, love. It’s Simon.”
-
You drift peacefully in inky blackness for an indeterminate amount of time. Awareness returns to you little by little, and eventually you float to the surface, proprioception seeping back into your limbs.
You’re not in nearly the amount of pain you expect, which you’re inclined to believe is due to the familiar itch of an IV taped to the back of your hand. You force your eyes open, flinching at the intensity of the fluorescent lighting overhead.
Doing a once-over of the room, you find yourself in a typical military hospital. Ghost is slouched in an uncomfortable-looking chair next to your bed, chin tipped to his chest and breathing softly. You attempt to push yourself upright, but you can’t withhold the groan that escapes through your teeth when the movement pulls at the compression bandages wrapped around your shoulder.
Ghost, ever the light sleeper, is awake instantly.
“How long have you been up?”
“Like,” You cringe at the rasp in your voice. “Thirty seconds.”
“Now you can count…” He mumbles under his breath.
You graciously choose to ignore his comment and his eyes flick to your face when you sigh heavily.
“What happened in there?” He asks softly, cautiously.
You clear your throat. “Got ambushed on my way out. What’s the damage?”
“Grade three concussion kept you out for two days, third-degree burns over your shoulder, broken nose, few fractured ribs, a whole lotta bruising and your face was pretty cut up.” He sits forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “Doc said we’ll have to wait for you to wake up to see if there’s any brain damage.”
Your eyes trace the tiles on the ceiling – it’s about what you expected. “And? What’s my prognosis?”
He huffs – his approximation of a chuckle. “Jury’s still out. We’ll have to see how you fare with the next demolitions course.”
“Ah, shit.” You pinch the bridge of your nose with your free hand. “Soap is gonna be intolerable after this monumental fuck-up.”
Another huff. “I’ll deal with Johnny. You focus on figuring out how you’re gonna embarrass him.”
You quirk a smile at Ghost. “Guess it’s fortunate I have so much time to scheme, then.”
His eyes crease at the corners, the closest to a smile you’ve seen from him in a while. “I look forward to seein’ what you come up with.”